


Still Time Yet

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Bone, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 07:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill. Sherlock, John and Lestrade are lost in the country somewhere with no mobile service. John's leg is broken, and they can't be sure that help will come. Rated for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for this prompt: For whatever reason, Sherlock, John and Lestrade are lost in the country somewhere with no mobile service etc., and they can't be sure that help will come to them. 
> 
> I'd love to see  
> -John and/or Lestrade is hurt and suffering in a manly way as they try to find their way home (the more h/c, the better!)  
> -Sherlock is freaked out because he can't figure out where they are  
> -John & Lestrade end up trying to provide emotional support for him while also trying to protect each other
> 
> Super extra bonus points if  
> -It's gen (though S/J and J/L are both good in my book)  
> -They have to climb up something  
> -At some point Lestrade goes "This is ridiculous" then picks John up and carries him
> 
> Really, I'd be happy if any part of this were filled. RTYIs welcome. :)
> 
> The prompt can be found here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120995679#t120995679

Neither John or Lestrade knew what they were doing that night to begin with, they were mostly chasing after Sherlock, who was chasing after some unknown person who may or may not have existed, but there they were nonetheless.

Everything was wet and slippery, and it just made going downhill, while sprinting, that much worse. Lestrade was just going to suggest that perhaps it wasn't the best idea, when John's legs vanished from beneath him and he slid down the hill, rolling once before finally slowing, and stopping next to a tree, rather than crashing into one.

Never the less, they both sprinted over to him.

“John?” Sherlock called.

John was conscious, and struggling to sit up, gasping as he looked at his leg. His trousers were covered in mud, but Lestrade thought it didn't look quite right.

“Yeah, it's broken,” John gasped before they could even ask.

“Mobiles?” Sherlock asked, spinning around to face Lestrade.

He shook his head. “Must have fallen out. Yours?”

“Wet,” he growled. “John?” he asked more gently.

John shifted to get his phone out of his pocket, grimacing as his leg shifted.

He stared at it in disbelief for a moment, the screen shattered and broken.

“I don't think so,” he muttered.

“Great,” Sherlock flung off. “Wilderness, broken leg, no mobiles.”

Lestrade rubbed his face. “Are you alright John?”

“It hurts, if that's what you're asking. I don't think anything else is broken though.”

“So we've got nothing except a broken leg to deal with,” Lestrade said.

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped.

“I supposed the only thing we can do is go back. Or one of us goes back, and the other stays here with John.”

“No,” Sherlock said at the same time as John.

They looked at each other.

“No,” Sherlock said.

“I agree,” John added.

Lestrade shrugged. “Suit yourself. Should we splint your leg?”

“No,” John said quickly. “Not at this point. I think splinting it out here would only do more damage than good.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Fair enough. You're the doctor. Can you hop, or should we carry you?”

“I think I'll try walking hopping. Lift me up,” he ordered Sherlock. He balanced on one foot and held onto the nearby tree trunk for support. “And I'll need a shoulder to lean on.”

Sherlock moved to John's side.

John frowned at him. “Not you, I can't reach your shoulders. Greg?”

Lestrade moved to John's side and allowed him to put his arm over his shoulders, and clutched John around the waist.

“Which way Sherlock?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock pointed. “We ran for approximately ten minutes, and at the rate John is able to move, it will take us near an hour to get back. Provided nothing eats us first.” He scowled.

“That's not funny Sherlock,” John informed him.

“I wasn't trying to be,” he replied.

They set off slowly, Lestrade being mindful of John's limited mobility, steering him towards the smoother paths, and Sherlock following anxiously behind.


	2. Chapter 2

They'd only been walking for ten minutes when Sherlock decided to point out the obvious. Again.

“This is usually the point where we cross our fingers and hope you show up soon,” Sherlock announced out rather bitterly.

“Yeah, well that's not going to happen,” Lestrade pointed out, helping John hop over an especially large fallen tree.

“Who knew we were going out?” John interjected, ever the peacemaker.

“Donovan, Dimmock... I suppose Anderson knows as well. Does Mrs Hudson know?”

Sherlock nodded. “I shouted something at her, so she has a vague idea.” He hesitated before speaking again, more softly. “I told her we'd be home for dinner.”

John checked his wrist. It was after seven. “I don't think we will be.”

Sherlock spun in a circle and growled.

“What is it?” John asked, concern for his flatmate evident despite his own injuries.

“We're in the middle of nowhere, and nobody's coming, and now you're going to die and it will be all my fault!” Sherlock blurted.

John stopped hopping and motioned for Lestrade to help him sit down.

“Sherlock,” he said softly. “I'm not going to die. It's just a broken leg. I've broken a bone before, so have you, and it's not exactly life threatening.”

Sherlock shook his head, his hands clamped over his face.

“No,” he said, but it was muffled. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “My fault.”

“Sherlock-” Lestrade began, but John cut him off with a glance.

“I'm going to be fine Sherlock,” he said gently.

Sherlock shook his head. “I'm not stupid John. It's an open fracture. I can see the blood on your jeans.”

John looked down. “Damn,” he noted, rather resigned.

Lestrade did a double take. “What the hell? Why didn't you tell us before?”

“It's not relevant,” John replied.

“Not relevant, for god's sake John, your bone is poking through your skin, I'd say that's pretty damn relevant,” Lestrade protested.

Sherlock only scowled at John, who continued to be defensive.

“I knew you'd only get worried.”

Sherlock stared at him. “For a good reason. Because you're going to die.”

“I'm not going to die,” John scoffed. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “You're going to get an infection, and then it will spread to the bone, and by the time we get to the hospital it will be too late to save you!”

“We won't take that long,” John protested.

Lestrade stepped in. “Alright, this has gone on long enough. I'm taking charge now. This is just ridiculous.”

And with that he lifted John under the knees and back, ignoring his protests.

“Shit! That hurt!” he yelled as the broken leg moved. “This is just embarrassing,” he muttered,

“Sorry,” Lestrade said, meaning it as he shuffled forward, taking care not to bump into any trees.

Sherlock followed with a murderous look on his face. He didn't like when people hurt John, even if it was for a good reason.

 

They carried on like that in silence for a while, until Lestrade nearly tripped over a root and slammed into a tree, doing his best to not jostle John. He failed.

“Fuck, _fuck!_ Come on Lestrade, you're killing me,” he moaned.

“I'm sorry John. How much further Sherlock?”

“Ten minutes at this pace.”

Lestrade nodded and continued trekking. 


	3. Chapter 3

Indeed, ten minutes later they arrived back at Lestrade's car, still parked where they left it before they'd gone diving into the hell hole after some figment of Sherlock's imagination. Lestrade sure wasn't going to bring that up, since Sherlock felt bad enough.

 

He loaded John in the backseat, Sherlock sliding in next to him. He was as gentle as possible, but John still hissed at them.

“Sorry,” he muttered again before slamming the door and scurrying around to the front.

“Nearest hospital?”

“Twelve minutes, give or take depending on how you drive.”

“Take then,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock told him the best roads to take. “And for god's sake, feel free to go a little over the speed limit.”

 

He turned his attention back to John, his leg propped up on the seat, and his head in Sherlock's lap. He'd sort of slouched into that position, and Sherlock wasn't going to move him.

“Hey,” he said, patting John's cheeks. “Stay awake.”

John blinked his eyes open. “I am awake,” he mumbled. “Just tired. Some of us need to sleep.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not before eight they don't.”

John made a non-committal noise before his eyes slid shut again.

Sherlock pinched him this time. “John,” he scolded. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

John scrunched his face up. “I don't think so. I dunno. Everything sort of hurts. Gating mechanism, you know?”

Sherlock nodded. He knew all too well.

“You shouldn't be suffering from enough blood loss to cause these symptoms, so I think you have a concussion,” he informed him.

John nodded slightly, then winced as Lestrade hit a bump.

“Sorry,” he called from the front seat. “Five minutes.”

They were long five minutes, Sherlock having to keep pinching and prodding John to keep him awake.

When they arrived at the hospital, even that wasn't doing it anymore, and Sherlock had taken to rubbing his sternum, wincing each time as he did.

 

John was quickly taken away on a stretcher, and Sherlock was left in the hallway in his muddy clothes.

“You did fine Sherlock,” Lestrade told him, smacking a hand down on his shoulder.

Sherlock looked at the hand like it offended him. Lestrade removed it.

“He's not going to die.”

Sherlock scoffed. “When did you become a doctor?”

“When did you?” he replied.

Sherlock scowled.

 

Many things happened in the next couple of hours. Mrs Hudson brought clean clothes for Sherlock, John went into surgery, Lestrade went back to work, and Sherlock paced. He only changed when he was told he wouldn't be allowed to see John with that amount of mud still on him.

 

He was led to John's bed in recovery.

“Told you I wouldn't die,” John scoffed.

Sherlock glared at him. “There's still time yet.”

John snorted.

He looked down at his leg, propped up on pillows and wrapped in a splint.

“I'm getting a cast before I leave in a couple of days. Ideas for colours?”

Sherlock was silent for twenty minutes before he finally declared “Glow in the dark.”

John blinked at him. “Okay. Can I ask why?”

Sherlock looked at him like he was an idiot. “It would be useful. Also, imagine the fun we'd have with that.”

John laughed at that, and Sherlock was puzzled.

He blamed the painkillers for John's unusual state of mind.


End file.
